Fever
by Adam Shmadam
Summary: Ballarat is besieged by a mysterious illness. Takes place early season 3.
1. Chapter 1

_Author's note: This has been in my head for awhile, but now that the craziness of the holidays is over, I may have time to actually get it down! This takes place early Season 3 and any medical info in this story is completely made up for dramatic purposes…I hope you enjoy and leave a review!_

He was trying, quite unsuccessfully, to not think about how perfectly her hand fit within his. She was sleeping finally, albeit more fitfully than he would have liked to see, but the delirium that had plagued her a few hours ago had thankfully subsided to the point that she could rest a little. Every now and then her brow would furrow or her head would move from side to side, but she continued to sleep, leaving him with his thoughts, holding her hand by her bedside. He has no recollection of Mattie coming in, but the evidence of her presence is there in the light cast by small lamp by Jean's dressing table and a (now cold) cup of tea at his elbow on the night stand. Her curls are every which way on the pillow, and he smiles when he thinks that she would probably be horrified if anyone saw her like that; but she is stunningly beautiful as she is and his heart gives a little lurch as he wishes that they were at a place where he could tell her so. Not too long ago he had held her in his arms as she cried for her son, and what started out as a gesture of comfort had turned into something else entirely. He knows that if the bloody phone hadn't rung just then, he would've kissed her, but what he is less sure about is whether or not she would have kissed him back.

Jean had half-fainted at lunch the previous day, thankfully while Mattie was home. Jean had protested that she was only a little under the weather, but Mattie prevailed and called Lucien at the police station. By the time he arrived (much sooner than Mattie had thought possible), Jean was semi-conscious, and running a dangerously high fever that had necessitated a swift reaction. For a few weeks now, Ballarat and its environs had been beset with a mysterious illness, and all of Lucien and Mattie's spare time had occupied with it. A Doctor Phelps, who Lucien knew slightly, even came from Sydney to research what was going on. So it happened that within an hour of her fainting spell, a vial of Jean's blood had been dispatched to the lab at Ballarat Hospital while Jean herself was tucked into her bed, under the worried care of her employer.

He brushed his fingers gently across her temple; she still felt too warm. A distant memory surfaced of a matron back in his medical student days who could tell a patient's temperature within a tenth of a degree just by touch. He dearly wished for that ability now as it was nearly time to take her temperature again and he was loathe to disturb her.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mattie closed the door behind her and wearily leaned against it. Her shift at the hospital had been busy and she yearned for a cuppa and a long nap. Despite it being the middle of the afternoon, the house was quiet. Lucien had cancelled all his surgery appointments when Jean had fallen ill, and Charlie would still be at work until dinnertime at least. She went upstairs, and was not at all surprised to see that Lucien had not moved from where he was when she left at dawn.

"You should get some rest, Lucien," she said softly.

"Later," was his reply, his eyes never leaving the form in the bed.

"Lucien…"

She's using her no-nonsense nurse voice, and in his head he knows she's right, that he's no use to anyone hungry and sleep-deprived, but his heart balks at leaving for even an instant.

"…I'll stay with her, and come get you if anything changes, I promise."

He's left with little choice, so he reluctantly heads downstairs, takes a quick shower, then instead of heading to bed, goes to the study, a medical book in one hand and a large scotch in the other.


	2. Chapter 2

_Author's note: I'm sorry it's taken me so long to do this chapter, but life is messy at the moment. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and please leave a review!_

The words on the page before him danced in and out of his vision, mocking him. He read the same paragraph over and over again without retaining any of its meaning. Slamming the book shut in frustration, he started pacing, running his fingers through his hair and avoiding the bottle in the corner. He needed a clear head, for her sake. He was always a better surgeon than a diagnostician, and he never felt the discrepancy more keenly than in this moment. He found himself face-to-face with a small, framed photograph of his father that had been moved to a shelf on the back bookcase some time ago. It was strange to think that he was older now than his father was when the photo was taken. Stranger still, to recognize just how similar certain features like the brow and jaw line were between father and son. _What would you do?_ he thought, _send her to the hospital and_ _move on?_ His conscience immediately balked the thought. The elder Dr. Blake and Jean were, by all accounts, good friends born by mutual respect and Jean had genuinely mourned his father's passing. Lucien had to concede that for all his faults, Dr. Thomas Blake would always do his absolute best for his patients. _What do I do?_ Running his palm through his beard, he seized the telephone.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mattie was hardly surprised when she heard Lucien's footfalls on the stairs a mere two hours after she chased him away. She honestly would've been more surprised if he had actually gone away and got some food and rest like she'd asked. And although he still looked exhausted and hollow, she was relieved to see he at least had changed his clothes.

"Any change?" he asked softly, in a tone of voice that told her right away that he didn't expect an answer in the affirmative.

"No, if anything, her temperature is higher than before," she replied.

Jean stirred, and muttered something unintelligible.

"Should we take her to the hospital?" she asked.

"No, Phelps doesn't think there's anything they can do for her there that we're not already doing."

"Well, that's reassuring," she said with a brightness she did not feel.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Christopher, _please_ don't go," she pleaded.

Lucien's heart shattered over and over again as Jean's delirium continued mercilessly. For hours, he and Mattie and even Charlie had taken turns simply talking to her, or reading to her, in the hopes that another voice would help. For a time, her restlessness and anxiety had subsided a bit while he read the entirety of yesterday's newspaper or from the slim volume of poetry he found on her bedside table. But as daylight faded once again, there were no words to stop the onslaught of Jean's subconscious. All of her fears and insecurities were laid bare, and the raw emotion cut him to the quick. He had dealt with his fair share of other's misery in Selarang, but in this little bedroom where up until a few days ago he had been in only a handful of times in his life, his eyes pricked with tears as she relived her most painful memories. She alternated between joy and sadness; her sons and her late husband, and someone named Catherine, of whom he had never heard. She cried and pleaded and argued, and at one point had hummed a sweet lullaby that was unfamiliar to him. Through it all, he sat, wiping her brow, and holding her hand, and hoping against hope that the fever would break soon.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Lucien?"

He had nodded off, chin on his chest, their hands still entwined. He started, and was instantly awake.

"I'm right here, Jean," he whispered.

She looked at him carefully, her eyelids heavy.

"You look terrible," she said, weakly.

He couldn't hold back a grin.

"You don't look so good yourself, you know,"

She gave him a weak smile, then closed her eyes again.

"I feel awful."

"I know, love." The endearment escaped his lips before he put conscious thought behind it, and once it was out, he found he didn't want to take it back. For her part, she seemed not to have heard it, as she didn't react one way or the other.

"Rest now, Jean. I'm not going anywhere."

"Good," she said, with a little sigh, and she was asleep once more.


	3. Chapter 3

They had done this so often now it was becoming second nature. Every four hours, he would scoop her up in his arms and carry her across and down the hall to the bath, where Mattie would take over getting Jean into the cool water in an effort to control her fever. Twenty minutes later, Lucien would return to take Jean back to her room again. Most of the time Jean was, at most, semi-conscious, but by this point muscle memory had taken over and she would lightly put her arms across his neck and lay her head on his shoulder automatically.

It was in this pose that Alice Harvey had come upon the two of them early that evening. When her knock went unanswered, she came right into the house and got no further than the top of the stairs when she encountered a sight more common to a gothic Victorian novel – Lucien, who despite his aura of exhaustion and frustration, was carrying a pale and slightly damp Jean in his arms with as much effort as if she were a loaf of bread. He greeted her as if walking around with his housekeeper in his arms was the most normal thing in the world, before setting Jean down on the bed again. Alice wondered idly (again) if there would ever be an appropriate time or place to ask him how his arms came to be so enormous.

"I have news, but you're not going to like it," she opened.  
He rubbed his beard, and she realized just how beaten he looked; Mattie had not been exaggerating. She continued,  
"There's been two more deaths at the hospital,"  
"And what does Phelps say?"  
"The postmortems aren't complete yet, but we know that this is a virus and not an infection."  
Lucien had suspected as much when he had given Jean some antibiotics a few days ago, but decided against telling Alice that.  
"How is she?" she asked.  
"Her fever is still very high, despite the baths. She's either unconscious or delirious. No rashes or breathing issues, but she's getting weaker and…" He rubbed his face again and Alice feigned looking at his notes on the nightstand while he quickly smudged away the beginnings of a tear.  
"Lucien, you know what this means, don't you?"  
He did, and all too well. Not so much now as a family doctor, but how many times did he have to tell some poor, young soldier to "prepare yourself"? _How the hell am I going to do that exactly?_ He thought bitterly. But no matter how he tried, he couldn't escape the very real fact the only in very rare cases could an adult survive more than five days with a fever over 105 degrees.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

This was precisely why she preferred working with corpses – she could go about the science of it all without the inconvenient emotions. She had followed Lucien downstairs, and he had wordlessly put on the kettle and prepared two cups. He then left her in the kitchen, and went into his study and closed the door. There were several cakes and casseroles about; a testament to the regard Jean held in the community. She poured the tea and waited. The tea was at best lukewarm when he emerged, without his tie and looking angry. Still without a word, he sat down heavily, and drank.

"Munro is still angry with you, Lucien," she said as much to break the oppressive silence as to give him something to take his mind off of Jean, if only for a few moments. There had been an epic argument at the station the previous day between them as Lucien had been called in against his will. There had been a great deal of shouting, and as Charlie had described to her, a near miracle that blows were not exchanged.  
"Munro can go to hell," he spat, as ferocious as she had ever seen him. And so it happened that they spent a solid half-hour imagining ways they could dispatch the officious Superintendent. 


	4. Chapter 4

He can't settle. Sleep is impossible, despite his exhaustion. No sooner does he sit down, then he's up and pacing again.

"Lucien…"

He stops, but only for a moment, to look at her and then heads to the bottle on the table in the corner. He should be grateful that Alice has stayed with him, and he is, but there is a part of him that is chafing at her scrutiny; if she tells him one more time to get some rest he may just implode. The whiskey burns his throat. He has drunk hardly any in the last five days, and his hands are trembling from withdrawal.

Danny arrived after midnight, looking a little leaner and a little older. His time in Melbourne changing him from a boy to a man, Lucien thought. He embraced the young man fiercely before showing him up to Jean's room, and for the past hour he's left them alone. He's grateful that at least Danny could come, especially since his efforts to contact Jack or Christopher have been so far unsuccessful. He's been failing spectacularly at not getting his hopes up every time the phone rings, but so far it has only been Phelps or Charlie.

Alice knows all too well that Lucien is not a particularly patient man; he's a man of action rather than introspection, prone to impulsiveness. She also knows how much it is costing him to not be able to do anything, to sit and watch a situation over which he has little to no control. Her attempts to distract him earlier in the evening with Munro or a lengthy discussion of research methods have fallen by the wayside and she is reduced to the Sisyphean task of trying to keep him calm. His frenetic pacing is grating on her nerves, but his steely silence worries her much more.

"She's strong, you know," she's not sure why she says it just then, but she feels he needs to hear it.

He sinks heavily unto the couch beside her and buries his face in his hands.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

"Mattie!"

He realizes there's a strong possibility that it's just wishful thinking, but there's a little kernel of hope forming. He very much needs a second opinion. Only a few seconds pass before Mattie appears in the doorway, not knowing what to expect.

"Lucien?

He's standing by the bedside, hands at the back of his head, eyes fixed on Jean.

"Mattie, take her temperature, please."

She does as he asks, but she doesn't need to look at the thermometer to know that Jean is noticeably cooler.

"Her fever's broken."

They stand there, shell-shocked for a moment, before a little giddy sigh escapes her. Lucien gives her a little side hug, before bounding to Jean's side to check her pulse again.

He should be sleeping, he knows, but he can't help but watch over her as she sleeps. He chased Mattie away just before dawn to make a phone call for him, and get some well-deserved rest, with the implied promise that he would do the same. sAs the morning light gets stronger, he's still holding her hand, very aware of the fact that he won't be able to once she's awake. He tries not to be too discouraged by that, and merely concentrates on the fact that she's going to live.

"Well done, Jean," he whispers.

Mattie, carrying a cup of tea, enters just in time to see Lucien plant a kiss on Jean's forehead. 


	5. Chapter 5

Her eyelids fluttered open, slowly. It took several seconds to focus, and several moments more to figure out where she was. Despite the heaviness of her limbs, she tried to get up.

"Easy there, Jean," Mattie was beside her, grinning.

She sat up warily on the edge of the bed, trying to get the room around her to stop spinning. Lucien appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, and crouched down in front of her.

"How are you feeling?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"A little dizzy…but mostly…hungry, I think."

"That's good." He gave her a little smile.

Unease settled around her as his large hands deftly flitted around, checking her pulse, fingers brushing her forehead, feeling the glands on either side of her throat.

"What happened?"

He shifted back on his heels as Mattie handed her a glass of water.

"You've been very ill, Jean," he explained. His hand remained on her wrist.

"Five days of a high fever," Mattie elaborated.

"Five days?!"

"Hmm. Now it's very important for you to take it easy the next few days," he said. Before she could protest, he continued,

"Nothing more strenuous than lifting a cup of tea to your lips – I mean it. You need time to regain your strength."

She was slightly unnerved by the intense scrutiny of his bright blue eyes into hers.

"Still dizzy?"

"A little…but not as much as before."

"Headache? Nausea?"

"No."

"Good. I think a tray up here for now – I don't want you to risk the stairs just yet. I think some of that stew from your sewing circle will be just the thing."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He works his way down the corridors, doing his best to avoid other people. He feels like hell, and suspects he looks much the same. The adrenaline from the stress of the last few days is dissipating, and he knows it won't be long before the exhaustion takes over completely, but Jean is still in the forefront of his mind, and there's a conversation he needs to have.

Dr. George Phelps is a small, jovial man who had always seemed to be thinking much more than he ever said out loud. He was physically nondescript, but possessed a keen mind, which thankfully had been bent towards medicine, even though he could have been successful in just about any field of study. Lucien had crossed paths with him not long after the war, and they became good friends, if infrequent ones. Years could go by, and often did, before any correspondence was exchanged between the two, but when the two men did get together it was if there had been no hiatus at all.

Lucien found him, as usual, bent over a microscope in a small lab at the end of a narrow corridor. Racks of test tubes covered the table, and notebooks covered whatever surface remained.

"Any news?"

Phelps started, not hearing Lucien come in, and shot his visitor a look.

"Lucien, the sample you sent over to me is still warm, for pity's sake," he chided, although not unkindly.

"What do you think, though?"

The scientist rubbed his eyes a bit before answering.

"To be perfectly honest, I don't know. There have been precious few cases to study to say anything conclusive. You say there's nothing in her history?"

"Nothing that we could find in the records. I was going to ask, when she's up to it."

"Well then, I think at this point, there's no reason to particularly worry about a relapse, but knowing you, you will anyway."

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

She must have dozed off for a bit, because the light outside is fading. The food was most welcome, but the effort it took to sit up and eat had exhausted her again. Her limbs still feel heavy, but she is thankful that the dizziness of earlier has subsided quite a bit. She can hear puttering downstairs, and is debating with herself whether or not to try to get up, when Mattie appears in the doorway, cups of tea in hand.

"I thought you might like this," Mattie said.

"Thank you," she responded, gratefully.

They talked of little things; Mattie filling in Jean on what little news she knew from the last few days, Jean meekly confessing that she felt a bit disconcerted after so much time lost.

"It'll be better once you are up and around again and too busy to dwell on it."

Mattie squeezed her hand but before she could stop herself, she yawned, and Jean smiled back at her.

"Go on, get some rest yourself. I'll be fine."

"Are you sure?"

"Positive. And Mattie, thank you."

"Thank Lucien, he did most of the work," the young woman replied.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The house is quiet and dark. It is not late, but the domestic routine has shifted considerably the last few days, so he is not surprised. He briefly contemplates a sandwich and bed but reconsiders almost instantly. He shifts the books in his hands, and quietly climbs the stairs.

He watches her sleeping form from the darkened doorway, and he is gratified to notice that her brow is unfurrowed and she's a little less pale than before. He has no idea how long he's at war with himself on the threshold when he hears her.

"Is that you, Lucien?"

"Yes, Jean."

"What do you have there?"

He steps forward into the light, and holds up his hands.

"Just some books for you. I had no idea you liked poetry," he admits, rather shyly, indicating with a nod of his head the slim volume on her bedside table.

"I'm not sure I do, actually. I just needed a change."

She suddenly had a very vivid impression of him, by her side, his low voice washing over her. She must have shown her confusion in her face, because Lucien was beside her in flash.

"Are you alright?"

She rolled her eyes at him; she was already tired of that question, and it had only been less than a day.

"Yes. It's just…things are a little…fuzzy…in my head sometimes."

He nodded in understanding.

"Have you ever…?" she asked.

He paused slightly, wondering if there will ever be a time in his life that he cannot feel the icy fingers of panic at the edge of his memory.

"In my time in the camp, I think I had every conceivable tropical fever one could have. I know what you mean. The disorientation will subside, I promise."

In the pale light of the lamp, she sees notices with a prick of worry just how tired he looks. The lines around his eyes are much deeper than usual and his quick smile is unusually subdued. Mattie's words come back to her.

"Thank you, Lucien, for everything."

"You would have done the same for me."

They are silent for a few moments, and he thinks he should go, but doesn't want to. She's twisting a bit of sheet around nervously in her fingers.

"Did I say anything, when I was….?"

"We can't be held accountable for our subconscious, Jean,"

"That sounds ominous,"

"It's fine, truly,"

She seemed to him unconvinced. He continued,

"There is nothing to worry about, I promise. We are all just glad that you are OK."

 _And you are the strongest, bravest, loveliest woman I have ever known._


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's note: Thank you all for the kind reviews!_

"What on earth are you doing?"  
"It's called laundry, Lucien."  
He took the basket out of her hands and marched towards the sitting room. She follows in his wake, annoyed.  
"Jean…"  
"I can at least fold laundry for goodness sake, Lucien!"  
He turns and is about to unleash for the umpteenth time a speech about how she needs to take it easy, when he's taken aback by the sheen of tears in her eyes. He takes a deep breath so they both can calm down a bit and gestures for her to take a seat.  
The past few days have been trying for the both of them; she has been chaffing at the restrictions on her activities, and he has been officious and ill-tempered generally. He knows he has handled things badly, letting his panic override common sense. For her part, she has been haunted by half-memories of her illness, and she's grown weary of everyone being solicitous.  
"I'm sorry, Jean," he remembers at the very last instant to not take her hand as he sits beside her.  
"I'm not made of glass,"  
"I know, but you need to be patient with yourself,"  
This is rich, she thinks, coming from perhaps the least patient man in all of Australia. He realizes how absurd it sounds coming from him as well, because he breaks out in a sheepish grin.  
"Just for a little while longer, please," he begs, with a lost boy look on his face.  
He looks so forlorn that she's tempted to give in, but she's not used to being idle _ever_. Even as a girl, there were chores to do, and then as a farmer's wife anything more than an hour or two watching the boys swim in the creek seemed like a slothful indulgence. Even now, her work is certainly less physically demanding than farming, but there are always meals to plan, clothes to launder or mend, and a certain infuriating doctor's accounts to keep. There is also the small, but not insignificant matter of her fragile reputation. How does it look to the gossips of Ballarat when Dr. Blake's housekeeper isn't keeping house? She can hardly put her feet up, while Evelyn Toohey and others are in and out cooking and cleaning at all hours. Lucien, of course, is oblivious to it all and she's not sure she wants to try to explain. Before she can put words to her thoughts, the phone rings and he is up like a shot

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

When Mattie returns from the hospital later that day, she steels herself for another awkward evening. The way Lucien and Jean act as if they had been married forever would be funny if it weren't so annoying lately, with the two of them arguing over Jean's recovery. She wants to knock some sense into the both of them and thinks that this may be the night she has to do it. But tonight the atmosphere in the house seems to be a little less tense, and she is grateful for it. Christopher called, so Jean is in a good mood, and Lucien has apparently relented so far as to let Jean work in the sunroom (in the mornings before it gets too hot) and do some cooking, although Lucien is determined to do the shopping and everything else. It is a fragile truce, but a truce nonetheless, and the evening is blissfully uneventful.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

She promised Lucien she would leave the cleaning to him, but she is feeling much stronger today, and the state of his office is beyond words. He hared off first thing with Matthew and Charlie this morning, so there is no telling when he'll be back, and she doubts that cleaning will be the first thing on his mind when he does return. She can't in all conscience leave it as it is, knowing that patients could see it in this state. Surely a bit of filing and dusting is not beyond her, so she makes a cup of tea, and settles in to tackle the piles of papers. It takes a good hour on the post alone; she would hazard a guess that it's almost two weeks' worth. Most of it is not pressing, and she makes little piles of the accounts and receipts to deal with later. She can't help but notice, with some sadness, that there are no letters for Lucien from China. She knows he sends letters out regularly, however busy he is, and feels outraged on his behalf. With a sigh, she starts in on the files when she sees something that stops her in her tracks. She has no idea how long she sits there, surprised and angry, when she hears him come in.  
"Jean?"  
"You read my medical records?" 


	7. Chapter 7

_Author's Note: Thank you for your patience - this has taken me far longer than I anticipated. Thank you to all the reviewers and followers - I hope I make it worthwhile! Work is crazy at the moment, but I promise I will do my utmost to update sooner._

He bristled, just a bit, at the insinuation. He was a doctor; of course he would read medical records. But she was distressed, and she was also one of the few people on the planet that he couldn't lie to.

"I didn't, but Alice did. We had to know if you'd had typhus as a child, and you were in no condition to tell us."

"Why?" He was pleased to note that some of the edge to her voice had softened, just a bit.

"Phelps thought it might be important. I had intended to finish up my notes, then send the lot back to Dr. Spencer."

He wanted to say more, but thought better of it and mentally kicked himself for not returning the file sooner. He was naturally curious about what could be in that file that she was adamant he not see, but he would never, ever presume to violate her privacy in that way. He sat down in the chair across from the desk and regarded her carefully. She was as lovely as ever, the paleness from her sickness gone. In a strange way, it was reassuring to have her vexed at him, for it meant that all was well again.

"Thank you – for sorting this lot out," he nodded towards the neat stacks of papers.

"Well, I thought it was _something_ I could do," she answered, somewhat pointedly.

Her initial panic subsiding, she couldn't help but notice how out of sorts Lucien seemed. He usually would rise to her chiding, but he had sunk heavily in the chair, and his whole body seemed to exude a more than usual amount of sadness. With a sharp pang of guilt, she wondered if he was starting to succumb to the illness that he had been exposed to for weeks.

"Are you alright, Lucien?" She just resisted the urge to get up and put her hand to his forehead.

"Yes, I'm fine," he replied, "just a little distracted, that's all." He proceeded to tell her about the latest case, and all the ways Munro was hampering his lines of inquiry. Jean thought that by all accounts William Munro sounded like a thoroughly unpleasant individual, but there was a little part of her that was grateful that he was attempting to curb Lucien's more self-destructive tendencies.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

Mattie was setting the kitchen table, as Jean finished stirring the gravy on the stove. Lucien, soon bored with paperwork in the study, was playing the piano, skipping from one song to the other.

"That's a nice one, Lucien," Mattie called out.

Jean, who hadn't been paying close attention, listened carefully and was surprised.

"I haven't heard that one in ages," she said, as she walked towards the piano, dishtowel in hand.  
Lucien, rather sheepishly, finished the final chorus before remarking,  
"I only just recently heard it for the first time."

Dinner passed pleasantly enough, with good food and conversation. Mattie and Lucien had engaged in a lively debate about some new medical procedure, which had lasted through most of the meal. It wasn't until desert over a piece of cake that Jean was able to broach a subject that she had been mulling over the last few days.  
"Christopher wants me to move to Adelaide to help Ruby after the baby is born."


	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: The summer got away from me and I sincerely apologize for taking so long to update this. A sincere thank you to those of you who have stuck with it. One more chapter of this, I think (considering this was meant to be 4-5 chapters originally)! Thanks!_

It was taking a great deal longer than she had anticipated to do the shopping; it seemed everywhere she went, someone would stop and ask her how she was feeling and how glad they were to see her up and about. As cheering as the sentiments were, she found herself getting annoyed with having to repeat herself, and no doubt Lucien would start to worry if she were as late as she thought she might be. _Oh Lucien._ He had been quiet last night after she had announced Christopher Jr.'s invitation. He had said all the right things, of course, but Mattie had been the one asking her questions about her plans, and his smile didn't quite meet his eyes. He had unusually retired early, and was gone again before breakfast.

Jean had scarcely dared to contemplate how much she would miss him when she left. Some distance between them might be for the best; there had been many times, especially of late, when things seem to shift between them unto dangerous ground. She blushed furiously when she thought of how it felt to be in his arms, and she thought she remembered a disheveled Lucien talking to her softly at her bedside. She had been so distracted by these thoughts that she nearly ran into Father Emory on the pavement.

"Jean," he said, "I'm very glad to see you."

"Thank you, Father,"

"I was so relieved when Miss O'Brien called me," he continued.

"Mattie called you?"

"Of course. Dr. Blake had her call to tell me that your fever had broken, and I was not needed. I'm thankful that our prayers were answered."

Dumbfounded, she said her farewells and promised to look in on the church flowers later in the week.

 _Lucien had arranged last rites for her._

And she wasn't at all sure how she felt about it. Although she knew her illness had been a serious one, the fact that her condition was dire enough that Lucien felt that she needed the benefit of clergy was disconcerting to say the least. And the fact that Lucien had put aside his vehement opposition of the Church to do such a thing for her was unnerving for an entirely different reason.

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

He stood, hands on knees, barefooted in the dewy grass of the back garden, trying to get his breathing under control. It had been a long time, relatively speaking, since he had last been gripped by an irrational panic that sent him bursting out of his room gasping for breath. The pounding in his chest gradually slowed, and the annoying ringing in his ears had finally dissipated. He straightened up gingerly, and rubbed his beard as he contemplated the dark sky above him. In the past, these attacks would happen randomly and with no discernible cause, but between the town's mysterious illness, his investigation into his mother's death, and now Jean's expected departure, he had no shortage of possible triggers to this latest attack. _Oh_ _Jean_. The logical part of him knew that she would not stay forever, especially with all she had to put up with from him, but there was a tiny, rebellious sliver of his heart that had hoped, and he chastised himself for it.

He could just make out the roofline of the house under the stars. When he reluctantly returned to Ballarat, he had no idea what being back here in the house of his youth would be like. He very nearly didn't come back at all, but his curiosity (not surprising, really, he thought ruefully) had won out in the end. There had been a few stops and starts, but now he couldn't imagine being anywhere else, _with_ anyone else. What would it be like without her here? Mattie would still be around, for a little while at least until she too decided there was a wider world out there beyond Ballarat. The panic that had gripped his heart when Jean had been lying insensible with fever had shown him the future. The laughter, and kindness, and everything else that made this house a home - something he never thought he would ever have - would be changed irrevocably.

"Everything alright, Lucien?"

He had been too lost in his own thoughts to notice Mattie's approach in the darkness.

"Yes, I'm fine."

Even to his own ears, he was unconvincing.

"So, you just burst out of bed in the middle of the night for some spontaneous stargazing?"

"Sarcasm doesn't become you, Mattie," he replied with a hint of a smile.

"Sorry. It's just that this is the what...? Third panic attack you've had this week?"

This almost-daughter of his was too smart for her own good sometimes.

"It'll pass."

She wrapped her arms around herself against the chill, and looked up to the sky. They both stood silently for a long while.

"It is quite lovely, isn't it?" she asked at last.

"Yes, yes it is."

Another few moments of silence.

"You could just talk to her, you know,"

"Then I would miss out on my 'spontaneous stargazing'," he countered, not without amusement.

"Lucien, I'm serious."

He made a noncommittal noise, and softly sighed before answering.

"She's made her choice, and for what it's worth, it's the right one," he held up a hand to stay her protest before continuing,

"...she should be with her family. When you are a parent, you'll understand," even in the darkness he could tell she was rolling her eyes.

"C'mon, it's too late to go back to bed. I'll make us some tea, and you can warm up."

She trailed behind him as he walked back to the house, the all-too-familiar slump of his shoulders making her wish that there was some way she could make everything right again.


End file.
